CHAPTER 16. FLASH ROYAL #2
“Oh, Newt, sweetheart, you’re here for the keys, right?” she says warmly.
“Yes,” I nod. “Thank you.”
“Come in, come in. Mr. Waverly left them for you.” She invites me inside as she heads back to fetch them.
I step into the warm coziness of their apartment, the smell of pastry and tea wrapping around me like a blanket.
“Xavier hasn’t arrived yet?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Xavier?” Mrs. Waverly echoes, glancing back at me as she heads into the living room. “Wasn’t he with you, dear?”
“He was,” I say, a tight flicker of pain and anxiety pressing at my chest. “I had something to take care of, so we split up.”
“He hasn’t come by yet, dear,” Mrs. Waverly says, a touch of concern creeping into her voice. “Have you tried calling him?”
“Yeah,” I nod, mouth dry. “He didn’t pick up. He’s probably just busy.”
“Probably,” she echoes softly. A moment later, she returns with a shiny new set of keys. “Here you are.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, trying to steady myself as a quiet, crawling panic settles in my chest.
Where would he go?
Mrs. Waverly gives me a small, worried look. “Did you two have a quarrel?”
“A little,” I admit, because saying it out loud feels like the only way to shake off the dread sitting in my chest.
“Oh, boys,” she sighs, clicking her tongue. “And here I thought you were past that separate-bedroom nonsense.”
My cheeks burn at the implication.
“We are,” I say, not even bothering to pretend—there’s a strange relief in just owning it. “It’s just still…a little complicated.”
“Oh, sweetheart, you’ll be alright,” she says, taking my hand in both of hers and giving it a warm squeeze. “It’s hard to communicate when you’re feeling everything all at once.”
“I guess,” I say, feeling a sudden burn rise in my throat. “It’s just… I don’t know. First, he won’t let me go, then he shuts down and says he needs space…” I let out a sigh, unable to meet her eyes. “I know his father died, so maybe that’s why. But I hate it when he shuts me out.”
“His father, dear?” says Mrs. Waverly. I look up at her and see the faint frown on her face.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “His dad passed away recently.”
Mrs. Waverly shakes her head. “No, dear. That happened a long time ago.”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“A while back—maybe a year ago—his uncle Ernest told me Xavier’s father died when he was just five. Ernest said he was keeping an eye on him because of a promise to his older brother.”
I stare at her, something turning over in my chest. Why would Xavier lie about that? Unless Mrs. Waverly got it wrong. But it doesn’t feel like she did. I sigh, too confused to get into it now, though a twinge of unease sits heavy in my stomach.
“I’ll ask him why Ernest said that,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. Then I nod. “Thanks for the keys, Mrs. Waverly. Tell Mr. Waverly thanks too, okay?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” she says, giving my elbow a gentle pat.
She walks me to the door, and just as I’m about to leave, she adds, “Newt, dear…I can see Xavier loves you very much. Even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. I’m sure that’s why he acts the way he does.”
I blink, my throat tightening. I nod and step out, heading back upstairs before I lose it right there in front of her.
When I step into the living room, I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch without even taking off my jacket, my mind still buzzing.
For a while, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the stillness around me. At some point, I nearly drift off—my head a swarm of anxious thoughts, half-formed conversations, moments from the past week and ones that never actually happened.
I see Xavier’s face. I know he’s not here, but I hear his voice anyway: “People lie easiest when they say they’ve got no reason to.”
I sit up, suddenly wide awake, my heart beating hard in my throat.
A thought pushes its way in—what if Xavier lied about his father because he didn’t want to talk about what really happened that night between us?
He might have. That would be just like him.
But why make up something so big just to cover a lie?
I stay there, thinking. Mrs. Waverly’s words echo in my head: “Xavier loves you very much. Even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. I’m sure that’s why he acts the way he does.”
I think back to this morning—how frustrated he was, how wound up.
“I didn’t keep you out of it because I didn’t trust you. I did it because I can’t fucking handle the thought of losing you. I don’t sleep for days if there’s a gun anywhere near you. Or a knife. Or whatever else.”
And now he’s doing it again. Shutting me out. When he said he needed to be alone, he had that same look in his eyes—hurt, even if it was only there for a second.
But what is he trying to protect me from now?
I exhale, thinking. Maybe it’s the killer who broke into our apartment. That would make sense—if Xavier figured something out, maybe he’s trying to keep me out of it while he follows the lead himself. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Or maybe this isn’t about the killer at all. Maybe it’s about Fred. Or Bernard. What if Xavier figured out Bernard was part of the scandal on his own? He wasn’t at The Chronicle when I got there—so he clearly wasn’t after Fred.
I sit there, turning the possibilities over in my head like a Rubik’s cube, trying to find the one side that makes everything line up.
I glance around the room and only now notice how spotless it is. Mr. and Mrs. Waverly must’ve cleaned up, just like they said they would. I make a mental note to thank them later. A small stack of newspapers sits neatly in the corner of the coffee table.
The top one is The Chronicle, which is why I pick it up. The front page is all about Minister Craig and his lover—looks like the print version of Bernard’s article I read this morning. I feel that same twist of anger flare up, knowing now he was trying to pull the same thing with Xavier and me.
I stare at the photos of the two men. The setup looks eerily familiar—almost identical to the pictures of Xavier and me from The Weekend Herald. The bastard really just copy-pasted the whole thing.
And that’s when I freeze. My heart slams in my ears, adrenaline flooding my veins so fast it’s blinding—because I finally recognize the man in the photo. Minister Craig’s advisor.
I’ve met him before.
I shoot to my feet, the floor seeming to tilt under me, everything crashing down all at once.
The man in the photo is Christopher Hill.
The witness in the Bridge case.
And before I can even figure out why this strange coincidence matters, my gut already knows. Something’s off.
Everything slows. I drop the newspaper and just stand there, frozen, my mind racing. Time feels suspended—I don’t hear the cars outside, or the wind against the windows. Just silence, and that rising certainty in my chest that something’s gone terribly wrong.
Suddenly, my mind sharpens. The buzzing swarm of thoughts starts to settle, each snapping into place.
Cormac Bridge’s murder.
Christopher Hill.
The scandal with Minister Craig.
Ice wraps around my heart. My breath turns shallow. That low, creeping anxiety shifts—into something colder. Stronger.
Fear.
I fumble for my phone, hands unsteady, and call Xavier. It rings. And rings. But he doesn’t pick up.
Dozens of details flash through my mind, snapping into place like puzzle pieces.
The party on Hickory Road… I can see it now—myself standing there, like I’m watching from the outside.
“Just about how you got ahead thanks to our gay Foreign Minister.”
It’s all connected. Everything.
“I’ve heard a lot about you from Chief Willand, Mr. Ormond.”
It used to feel like half the pieces were missing. But it was only one—one that tied the entire picture together.
“I mostly cover politics, but sometimes crime, so we talk pretty often. We go way back.”
One person.
“You must live nearby to be a regular here.”
“Just down the street.”
One link.
“Got a big scoop. Front page material.”
A scoop. A murder. A scandal.
No—
A scandal.
“You hear about Minister Craig’s latest mess?”
A murder.
“All Farewell Security homes come with an option for hidden cameras.”
“You think they’re connected to his death?”
A scoop.
“But why would anyone do that? Are they trying to distract us?”
Minister Craig’s scandal.
Cormac Bridge’s death.
Xavier Ormond and I—headline fodder, a frenzy for every journalist in the city.
The story about us was never the point. It was a distraction.
“What’s a Kansas City Shuffle?”
“A Kansas City Shuffle is when everybody looks right, you go left.”